Apples and Clouds

by Zachary Wilhide

     Midway through the alleyway, Derek’s thoughts and emotions smashed together. He was looking up at a cheese-faced moon smiling shadows on the licorice-black fire escapes, remembering the night his mom went away. 

     Enrique had told him to stay away from the stove, but Enrique was at the gym and his mom had just closed the bedroom door so she could smoke her medicine. Derek wanted his mom to feel better—she was sick a lot—and soup needed to be hot. He’d clicked on the gas burner and the hot blue flame surprised him before he could even get the bowl. It surprised the towels lying on the stove too. Soon, the flame had spread all over the kitchen. Derek cried out for his mother, but his cries were choked away by the smoke. Just as Derek’s world was fading to darkness, a man in a banana yellow suit with an elephant’s trunk came and carried him down a ladder.  

    “What’re you doing, D?” Enrique bumped Derek’s shoulder.  “Calm down, hermanito.  Deep breaths. We can’t have you losing it tonight.”

     “I’m fine. . . ,” he unclenched his fists as the fire vanished, and the yellow elephant left.  “. . . sh-shit together.” 

      “We don’t have that kind of time,” Rock said, a mean smile accompanying his words.  He was busy jimmying the lock on the pharmacy’s back door. The door was dirty and greasy, Derek thought. A click echoed in the empty alleyway. “We’re in.”

     The place was a dark labyrinth lined with shelves full of drugs.  Wedged in between Rock and Enrique, Derek was pushed along, reading the confused alphabet of drug names printed on the boxes. After a few twists and turns, Rock stopped. “Found it.”

     He shined his phone light on red and white boxes marked with the word “pseudoephedrine.” The boxes looked so perfect, Derek thought: Apple red and cloud white. Rock reached for one of the boxes and smudged one of the corners with grease from the alley door. Derek started to sway back and forth, raised a fist to jostle the emotions in his head.  Enrique tried to calm him down.  Rubbing his back, he spoke in a steady tone. “Take a deep breath. We’re almost done. Throw a few handfuls in a bag and we’re out.  Then you can watch TV and color while Rock and I cook that special medicine.”

     “The one you’re going to give to the sick people?”

     Derek smiled. “Like mom?”

     “Si,” Enrique’s voice caught in his throat. “That’s the one.”

     Rock shoved Enrique aside. “Why’d we even bring him along?” His whisper was urgent, tinged with menace. “He’s fucking autisti—.” 

     Enrique’s right hand shot out faster than Rock could react in the dim light of the stockroom. It was tight and semi-professional, and caught Rock just above his ear.

     “Never call him that. He’s here because I ain’t leaving him alone . . . I’m all he’s got. And my contacts are what you need. So . . . you want my help . . . you tolerate Derek.”

     Rock’s eyes challenged Enrique. Enrique’s hand clamped down on Rock’s shoulder, grinding his thumb into his front deltoid to prove his point.  Rock’s eyes watered. A low grumble served as his response. 

     Bags filled with boxes, they filed out of the stockroom. 

     Outside, bright lights and angry shouts greeted them. The cold muzzle of a gun was pressed just below Derek’s ear. Rough hands tore him away from his brother. Sights and sounds overwhelmed. 

     Enrique was being held down by several blue uniforms. Derek’s name was on his lips as he fell to the ground. His body jiggled from the swift kicks of the officers. Rock made a move toward his waistband. Loud shouts and loud bangs hit Derek’s ears. Red and white boxes flew up in the air as Rock slumped to the ground. Derek wrestled against the blue hands. Muffled Taser threats filled his ears. He watched the boxes spin in the red-blue lights of the police cars. He screamed.

     The jolt of electricity contorted his limbs; made his chest hurt. Derek screamed again. Apples and clouds were falling from the sky, and no one was trying to catch them.  

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Zachary Wilhide is a writer and artist who lives in Virginia Beach, VA with his wife and cats.  He has previously had stories published in Spelk Fiction, Close to the Bone, Yellow Mama Magazine, and Shotgun Honey, among others.  His art currently resides at https://www.deviantart.com/whytedevil.